


blue eyes

by vivelapluto



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, soulmate colors au, soulmates!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 20:58:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18301823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivelapluto/pseuds/vivelapluto
Summary: the radiant spectrum between love and loss, or enjolras and grantaire, searching for a life that isn't quite so grey





	blue eyes

Grantaire doesn’t believe the sky is blue. How can it possibly be  _ blue,  _ when it’s always so desolately and dismally grey?

Granted, he doesn’t even know what blue looks like. But everyone who can see it describes it like the most wonderful thing.

To which Grantaire scoffs, every time.

A lot of it is jealousy, he’ll admit. Jealousy and spite, because why do  _ they _ get to see the world in color when he’s stuck here, searching the face of every person he meets and watching, waiting, for something that’s never going to come.

For a world of vibrancy and light and beauty that he’s only ever imagined.

Grantaire tips his head back to look at the clouds. They’re still the same, he’s heard, when the shift happens. But the sky is said to be a beautiful, wondrous thing.

“You can see every color at once up there,” Jehan tells him after meeting Courfeyrac. “The sunsets? They’re magnificent.”

_ Magnificent. _

And so, as the years stretch by, Grantaire waits.

And waits.

And waits.

* * *

 

Enjolras’s never been impatient when it comes to his soulmate, but the day he gets a call from Courfeyrac waxing poetic about sunsets and stars his hand shakes as he hangs up the phone, turning away from the window.

The sunset he’s watching right now is a pitiful thing — a grey sun sinking into a grey sky, just beneath an indistinct grey horizon. He sighs, resisting the urge to call Courfeyrac back and ask him more about it.

Though the most detailed description in the world wouldn’t help, really, because Enjolras doesn’t even know  _ how  _ to picture it. His time will come, though.

Someday.

Someday he’ll have someone to watch the sunset with, someday it’ll be him, excitedly talking on the phone to a friend, telling them about what a wondrous place this world is.

Standing up, Enjolras shrugs on a jacket. 

What good is there in waiting, he decides, when that very person is out there somewhere?

Enjolras steps outside, into the fading sunlight he’ll soon be able to truly see.

* * *

 

Grantaire only decides to go out because the boredom and insufferable waiting has him on the brink of losing all hope.

He keeps his head down, though, not wanting to look at the monotonous world around him. 

Everyone speaks of red and blue and yellow and orange, and it’s not fair.

Because all Grantaire sees is charcoal and slate and heather and  _ blandness. _

He’s told himself a thousand times not to question it. His time will come. Sooner or later, though he really hopes it’s sooner.

Grantaire decides to lift his chin, stopping his dead-eyed gaze towards the ground.

Insipid as this world is, he might as well face it head-on.

* * *

 

The man at the bar is beautiful, and smart, and charismatic — Enjolras’s been waiting for him to look his way for the past hour.

He’s talking with some friends, an ethereal smile painted on his darkened lips.

Something feels off, but Enjolras can’t help but wonder. He walks over, conjuring up a smile of his own. 

Perhaps hearing is approaching footsteps, he turns around —

Enjolras hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until now, as it all escapes him in a deflated sigh.

As the world remains as it was before, even as their eyes meet.

He offers a beckoning hand. Enjolras returns with a wave goodbye.

* * *

 

Grantaire doesn’t know how, but he’s ended up at the bar and is currently on his third — or is it fourth? — drink.

It’s far too sour, and rather diluted, if he’s being honest with himself, but he doesn’t really care. Some people who have come past have offered him smiles, waves, winks, words of greeting, but when nothing happens, they all move on.

Perhaps that’s what Grantaire should do, but he’s been sitting here for a few hours now and can’t get himself to leave, for some reason.

He orders another drink.

The barista slides it across the table to him, as a voice beside him says, “I’ll have the same, it’s been a rough night.”

Grantaire turns to offer his condolences, but freezes as the man’s eyes meet his.

“Enjol—“ he starts to introduce himself, then falters.

His gaze intensifies, and it’s all Grantaire can do not to fall apart right there.

For those eyes — 

He knows it the moment he sees it.

_ Blue. _

 


End file.
